“When you first see a Slob Babe, your little brain tells you you’re the only one who notices her beauty and you should go for it. Then your big brain kicks in and points out Earth also finds her attractive so you give up and go back to 6s where you belong.”—
“SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it’s my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache. This is an entirely inappropriate length for what is essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls. But I digress. Let us start with the “plot.”—
One thing I haven’t seen mentioned (I’m from the Jack Shafer camp) are the Egyptian things and hieroglyphs everywhere. Not just everywhere but in Important Places, like the glowing cave. He didn’t just pull a rock out of the ground, he pulled an Egyptian Plug. This happened throughout the entire series. Why is this important? It lets us, the audience, know that these things Are Important and they were made (or at least decorated by) humans or logical creatures. That these things behaved in a logical manner and that someone using their logic managed to control or otherwise figure them out.
I didn’t need all things answered obviously, but there was a definite sense that there was a coherent logic to the Island’s mysteries. The writers lead us down that path, it was a trust issue. Hey people get cured on this island … and women can’t get pregnant … there’s strange electrical phenomena. I don’t need an engineering diagram to solve it, just the idea that there was some mechanism at play and this was all foreshadowing an explanation.
It became painfully obvious that this wasn’t the case, and it was all a big ruse. For example, Pulp Fiction uses a glowing case and never explains it. That’s okay, that works. Why? Because the characters don’t get cured when they touch the case, people don’t sacrifice their life for the case, people don’t say, “If we lose that case, we’re all dead.” By the end of Pulp Fiction I’d be pretty pissed if they didn’t tell us what the fuck is up with the damn case. No the case was Something Important but it was just a prop to tell a series of stories which would have worked whether it was a case or just a bag full of money.”—Geoff, from Previously on Lost | MetaFilter
“A series like “Lost” doesn’t need to solve all of its riddles, but it does need to address the right ones. (The first season of “Twin Peaks” is an object lesson in how to provide enough resolution while preserving the delicious mysteries of a fictional universe.) From statements the producers of “Lost” have made over the past five years, they developed a dynamic with die-hard fans (and disillusioned fans and skeptical non-fans) that was infinitely more complex than any of the personal relationships among the series’ characters. Could it be that in resisting the geekiest, nitpickingest, most Aspergerian demands of their audience they swung too far in the opposite direction, dismissing as trivial everything but the cosmic (the tedious and largely unnecessary Jacob-Smokey background) and the sentimental (making sure that every character receives his or her designated soul mate or therapeutic closure of the most banal Dr. Phil variety)? If so, “Lost” may be the quintessential example of a pop masterpiece ruined by its own fans.
The comic-book paraphernalia and texture of the island — its secret bunkers with their code names, Jacob’s migrating cabin with its creepy paintings, the ersatz normality of the Others’ compound ringed by those sonic pylons and the fantastically mechanical grinding and dragging sounds that used to accompany the appearance of the smoke monster — were not peripheral to the heart of “Lost.” They were the very essence of its appeal, what that show did better than any other. If I want to contemplate the nature of good and evil, I’ll turn to Nietzsche or Hannah Arendt (or, for that matter, Joss Whedon), and if I want ruminations on love, give me Emily Brontë or John Updike (or “Big Love”). From “Lost” I wanted less profundity and more fun. And I still want to know what the deal was with those numbers.”—"Lost": Ruined by its own fans? - Lost - Salon.com
“I hate this place. It stinks and it’s dirty and there is piss and needles and garbage everywhere, and last year when I went for a run in the park I had to traverse a trail that had been completely covered in used toilet paper.”—
Admittedly I’ve only lived here three years, but I never see stuff like this. I’ve never seen needles, and there’s not a lot of garbage. And it doesn’t smell—or rather, it smells delicious most everywhere except in BART elevators and that one spot near the bus terminal. I saw one guy peeing on the street, dead drunk, about two months ago, and he was white, and definitely not homeless. When we have huge street parties like LoveFest or Gay Pride or B2B, the streets are cleaned again within a couple of hours, something that never fails to amaze me. I’m also always impressed by how clean Dolores Park is, considering the foot traffic.
Anyway, when I these sorts of descriptions about San Francisco, I can’t tell if folks are trying to out-urban other American cities, or if I am just one of the blessed few who lives in the Mission and gets to see only the good parts.
Lucas winkingly “confessed” that he too has some experience in using last-minute spackle to fix plot holes and then pretending that all of it was part of some grand master plan.
"Don’t tell anyone," Lucas wrote, "but when ‘Star Wars’ first came out, I didn’t know where it was going either. The trick is to pretend you’ve planned the whole thing out in advance. Throw in some father issues and references to other stories — let’s call them ‘homages’ — and you’ve got a series."
I boldly assert, in fact I think I know, that a lot of friendships and connections absolutely depend upon a sort of shared language, or slang. Not necessarily designed to exclude others, this can establish a certain comity and, even after a long absence, re-establish it in a second. Martin was—is—a genius at this sort of thing. It arose—arises—from his willingness to devote real time to the pitiless search for the apt resonance.
He did not scorn the demotic or the American: in fact he remains almost unique in the way that he can blend pub talk and mid-Atlantic idiom into paragraphs and pages that are also fully aware of Milton and Shakespeare. Martin had a period of relishing the Boston thug-writer George V. Higgins, author of The Friends of Eddie Coyle. Higgins’s characters had an infectious way of saying “inna” and “onna,” so Martin would say, for example, “I think this lunch should be onna Hitch” or “I heard he wasn’t that useful inna sack.” Simple pleasures, you may say, but linguistic sinew is acquired in this fashion, and he would not dump a trope until he had chewed all the flesh and pulp of it and was left only with pith and pips.
Thus there arrived a day when Park Lane played host to a fancy new North American hotel with the no less fancy name of the Inn on the Park and he suggested a high-priced cocktail there for no better reason than that he could instruct the cabdriver to “park inna Inn onna Park.” This near palindrome (as I now think of it) gave us much innocent pleasure.